


Make Your Own (Buns in the Oven)

by nezstorm



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Abortion, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mpreg, Pregnant Stiles, Slow Build, Unplanned Pregnancy, see notes for the warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 21:42:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14246349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezstorm/pseuds/nezstorm
Summary: Stiles opens his mouth a few times, but no words come out as he feels tears welling up again. He takes a deep, shaky breath, exhales slowly to calm himself enough to do this.Peter waits, brows furrowed in worry as he watches Stiles.“I think I’m pregnant,” he finally says, “And I don’t know what to do.”--Or the one where Stiles is a human incubator and Peter is not the baby daddy (until he is).





	Make Your Own (Buns in the Oven)

**Author's Note:**

> I did some very minor editing before reposting this.
> 
> On the warnings:  
> The dub con warning is there because Stiles had no idea that he could get pregnant by having sex with that particular guy (who is fae), so the choice was completely out of his hand there and he feels violated.  
> Which leads to Stiles considering and ALMOST getting an abortion. He backs out at the last minute though.

They’re friends these days, made closer by years of working together, late nights researching and planning, rolling their eyes at the idiocy of their pack and saving their asses time and again. They understand each other because they’re similar in a lot of ways, and they complement each other because of how different they are. They’re a really deadly team.

 

Peter is clever and smart, cares about few people and doesn’t show it like others do, but he’d go to great lengths to ensure their safety. He’s confident and capable, snarky and vindictive, and the kind of man you want to have on your side when you step into a dragon’s den. Especially when it is a literal den of actual dragons. 

 

Stiles trusts him with his life.

 

Which is exactly why it’s Peter’s door he knocks on in the middle of the night on Tuesday, his eyes rimmed red and arms wrapped protectively around his stomach, his world coming apart at the seams.

 

Peter opens the door looking alert and ready to attack despite being barefoot and wearing only sweats and a tank top.

 

“Stiles?”

 

Stiles opens his mouth a few times, but no words come out as he feels tears welling up again. He takes a deep, shaky breath, exhales slowly to calm himself enough to do this. 

 

Peter waits, brows furrowed in worry as he watches Stiles.

 

“I think I’m pregnant,” he finally says, “And I don’t know what to do.”

 

\--

 

He lets Peter usher him inside and guide him to the couch, plops down on it still hugging his middle. Like his stomach might grow to enormous proportions if he lets it go.

 

Peter sits down on the coffee table right in front of him and stays silent as he takes Stiles in.

 

“Give me his name,” he finally says. It’s almost a threat, with the way Peter’s hands are clasped tightly together like they’re itching to strangle someone.

 

Stiles blinks at him confused before he realizes who Peter means.

 

“No, you don’t need it right now.”

 

“I clearly do, if you show up here looking like this,” Peter stands up, looking like he’s ready to storm out and find out himself who the other father is, right before killing him. “Give me the name.”

 

“No!” he curls in on himself, even more, voice growing shrill, “That’s not what I need! Peter,” he continues in barely a whisper, feeling ready to break apart again, “I don’t know what to do.”

 

Peter seems to get it then and sits down next to Stiles, pulling him close to his side and letting him hide his face against Peter’s throat. 

 

He’s crying again, helplessly, like he did in his room an hour ago. He finally came to terms with the fact that it wasn’t the flu that caused his almost constant exhaustion the last few weeks. That it wasn’t a stomach bug that had him unable to keep food down, especially in the morning. He had all the proof he needed, but even then it wasn’t an obvious conclusion, no matter how involved he is in the supernatural world. 

 

But once he considered it he knew.

 

He  _ knows _ . But what does he do now?

 

He’s in his second year of college, he lives in the dorms most of the week, he battles monsters at least once a month. His plans for the future only reached as far as graduating and then coming back to work with his dad. He never planned for this, couldn’t have planned for this. 

 

He doesn’t know what to do!

 

He must have said the last part out loud because Peter shushes him, holds him closer with one arm, free hand petting Stiles’ hair. He rocks them back and forth softly, seemingly uncaring of all the tears and snot getting all over his shirt.

 

Stiles tries to calm down, breathes in deep and focuses on the familiarity of Peter’s smell. He takes comfort in it: in the earthy scent mixed with a hint of rain and cooper. It grounds him. For a moment he stops feeling like he’ll fly apart.

 

“We’ll figure something out,” Peter promises, pressing the words into Stiles’ hair. “We’ll figure it out.”

 

\---

 

They go to Deaton in the morning.

 

Stiles wakes up around seven to run to the bathroom and then stumbles into the kitchen, Peter is already there, talking on the phone in Russian. He isn’t sure Peter caught any sleep at all, after holding him until he was half asleep and dragging him to the guest bedroom.

 

Peter pushes a glass of orange juice into Stiles’ hand and Stiles is infinitely grateful for the choice of coffee or no coffee being taken away from him.

 

He’s even happier that not even once did Peter ask Stiles if he was sure about the pregnancy, something he would have expected from just about everyone else. He’s thankful for it because he knows he wouldn’t be able to handle being doubted right now.

 

Peter never really questions him when he comes to the werewolf with his mind already made. He’ll propose alternate solutions, point out flaws if there ever are any, but he’ll never discredit him. Never challenge him like that because he knows Stiles almost obsessively triple checks it all.

 

Peter doesn’t consider spending time with Stiles as babysitting simply because Stiles is a grown man with a mind of his own.

 

A grown man who will soon have a baby.

 

Peter drives them to the clinic, stays close the whole duration of their visit there. It’s not only the fact that Stiles needs the closeness as a form of comfort, but also the fact that neither of them trusts Deaton completely.

 

“I think I’m pregnant,” Stiles announces as soon as they’re alone with the vet, “I need you to help me make sure.”

 

Deaton, the shifty bastard, doesn’t even bat an eye.

 

“Your symptoms?” the man simply asks as he moves over to rifle through a few drawers.

 

“Morning sickness, for one,” Stiles ticks off on his fingers, “I’ve been feeling completely exhausted the last few weeks and my head has been spinning a lot. I pee a lot. I go from happy, to angry, to crying in a matter of seconds. And my insides have been cramping quite a lot.

 

“Now,” he gives Deaton a hard stare and clenches his hands together to stop them from shaking, takes a deep breath as Peter puts a hand on his shoulder, “Tell me you can take a few tests to make sure that I’m right.”

 

“From what you’ve said just now, it’s pretty clear that you are, indeed, right. It might help if you told me who--”

 

“That’s not important right now,” Stiles cuts in vehemently. He doesn’t want to think about that right now. “I need to  _ know. _ So could you please just get on with it or tell us if we should go to someone else that will actually help me?”

 

Deaton looks at him for a moment, face betraying nothing before he holds out a syringe.

 

“As you wish.”

 

Stiles sways at the very sight and catches Peter’s fingers, where they’re still resting on his shoulder.

 

Oh, boy. 

 

\---

 

Stiles doesn’t faint as Deaton takes a sample of his blood, but it is a close call. He does, however, clutch at Peter’s hand the whole time and is grateful when Peter doesn’t pull away.

 

“Go home and get some rest,” Deaton advises once he’s done stabbing Stiles with needles. “This will take a few days. I’ll let you know once I have the results.”

 

It’s clear that they’re dismissed with that, the vet turning away from them to busy himself at the counter. 

 

Stiles staggers a bit as he gets up from the stool he was sitting on, reaches for Peter instinctively and rights himself as he holds onto the man’s biceps. 

 

They get into the car and sit in silence for a moment, and Stiles knows Peter is waiting him out, giving him the space he needs to think of his next step.

 

“I have to tell dad,” he finally decides.

 

He doesn’t ask why Stiles went to Peter first, simply starts the car. 

 

\---

 

Stiles doesn’t keep things from his dad anymore, not since the big supernatural reveal.

 

Lying to his father hurt, each omission a new point of pain, a new bruise, another ounce of guilt. Nothing was as painful as his dad not trusting him, not  _ believing  _ him. Nothing cut as deep as his dad turning his back on him.

 

They had a few years to mend what they had and it’s good now. Better. He’s relied on, now, treated like the man he became, trusted. 

 

Stiles keeps him informed about every single supernatural event and updated on his own status. Be it his college professors, his classes, or whether he is seeing someone or not.  

 

His dad knows all the vital and nonvital things about his life these days, and this one bit of information might top all of them combined. 

 

His dad is also very adaptive, and while the news about him being a grandpa come as quite a shock, male pregnancy doesn’t seem to scare him. For now. Though Stiles supposes it’s quite a lot easier to imagine it when you’re not the one gestating the baby.

 

But no matter how understanding his father is, there is a question that his dad needs an answer to.

 

“What about the other father?” his dad asks, his arm still securely wrapped around Stiles’ shoulders, “Did you tell him?”

 

“I suppose he didn’t, judging from the way he’s been acting,” Peter supplies from his place in the armchair. The one Stiles started referring to as Peter’s when he’s home and Peter comes over since it was the wolf's preferred place to sit in. 

 

“He won’t care,” Stiles tells them.

 

“Stiles, aren’t you too quick to decide--”

 

“No, dad, he really won’t,” Stiles cuts in, sounding a bit harsher than he meant to. He bumps his shoulder against his dad’s in a silent apology before continuing, “If he cared he’d have told me that the possibility exists before we started having sex.”

 

“He’s some supernatural creature then,” Peter deduces, not even bothering to phrase it like a question.

 

Stiles nods, “Fae.”

 

“Do you have to be a monster magnet wherever you go?” his dad wonders.

 

Stiles might argue, but Paul did approach him first, said he was intrigued by Stiles’ spark.

 

“He knew I have a pack. And that I’m magic.”

 

Peter looks at Stiles sharply at that.

 

“You think he could have approached you knowing that it might result in this?” he gestures to Stiles’ stomach.

 

“I don’t know,” Stiles slumps further against his dad, “He told me that he liked how he could stop hiding around me, but we weren’t in a relationship or anything. We weren’t exclusive. I know of a few other people he was with at the same time.”

 

“And you didn’t think of using protection?” his dad scolds. 

 

Stiles wondered when he’d bring that up so he’s prepared to answer.

 

“Fae just like most supernatural creatures are immune to human diseases,” he sees his dad look to Peter for confirmation which is a bit rude, so once the werewolf nods Stiles glares at his dad for a moment. “Sometimes we used condoms, sometimes we didn’t. Depended on the situation and what we wanted.”

 

In fact, most of the time they both preferred to not use anything, but he’s not about to say that out loud with his father in the room.

 

He can see clearly that his dad wants to reprimand him for being so reckless, but what’s done is done, and in the end, the Sheriff just pulls Stiles closer. 

 

“You still think that this might not be an accident?”

 

“I don’t know, dad. But I’ve seen and lived through enough to be suspicious when it comes to things like this.”

 

They sit in silence for a while, all three of them agreeing that Stiles is right.

 

It’s his dad that asks the one question Stiles would rather not think about.

 

“What are you going to do if the test is positive?”

 

“I don’t know, dad,” he repeats. “I don’t know yet.”

 

“You’ll have time to decide,” Peter says and Stiles smiles at him, “First though, we should eat something. All you had this morning was juice and it’s been a few hours.”

 

\---

 

Staying with Peter is the logical choice.

 

Lydia has that on-again-off-again thing with Jackson and Aiden that Stiles can’t even begin to understand, and is halfway across the country. Scott's working thirty hours a week on top of veterinary school, and Derek is down in Brazil in the rainforest with Cora doing who knows what.

 

And his dad has work. He suggests taking a few days off, but Stiles delicately declines. He doesn’t want to be alone right now, but he also doesn’t want to be coddled.

 

Which really only leaves Peter. 

 

He's the only one in their group of friends that has his life put together. He won’t hover and will know just the way to distract Stiles as they wait for Deaton to call. 

 

He’s also the only one Stiles actually considers, but there is logic behind it, just in case.

 

Peter also doesn’t ask unnecessary questions.

 

When he sees that Stiles is getting ready to leave at the same time as him, after they’re done eating lunch with the Sheriff, he simply waits for him at the door. Stiles makes quick work of stuffing a few things in a bag and hugs his dad goodbye.

 

He has a toothbrush and some toiletries at Peter’s already anyway. 

 

\---

 

Stiles skips his classes for the next three days as they wait. One of them anxious, the other one blas é , looking for all intents and purposes completely unconcerned by the idea of housing a possibly pregnant, twenty-two-year-old man.

 

That is until he accosts Stiles in the living-room just as Stiles wakes up from a nap. 

 

It is  _ his _ living-room and he seems to just be sitting in his armchair waiting for Stiles to wake up, but he’s wearing his “you’ll tell me all I need to know” face, so Stiles feels justified when he calls it an ambush.

 

Groaning loudly, Stiles thumps his head back against his pillow. 

 

“Oh my god, can’t this wait?” he makes his best puppy eyes at Peter. The ones that seem to work on just about everyone aside from his dad and, apparently, Peter. Because all he gets for his effort is a raised brow.

 

“We wouldn’t have to do this if you had told me right away. And now that I know that the other potential father is a powerful magical being I have all the more reason to go look for him and have a bit of a chat.” 

 

“A chat?” Stiles snorts. “You have murder written all over you. I don’t want you bringing the whole court down on us”

 

“You think so little of me, Stiles,” Peter tells him, and he’s smirking, the bastard. The humor dies in a flash though. “But I’m serious. I want his name. I can and will find him without your help if need be, but I’d rather you told me yourself.”

 

Stiles sits up and throws off the blanket he was covered with, folds it neatly to focus his eyes on something else than Peter’s inquisitive stare. 

 

He knows Peter won’t let the issue go. Just as he knows that they really should look into it. They’ve all been fucked over more than once and he knows better than to ignore the possibility of being a part of some evil masterplan. But he also doesn’t want to have to deal with it just yet. Not until he knows for sure.

 

“I’ll give you the name, but you have to promise me something first,” he finally says, waits for Peter to roll his eyes at him. “You’ll go have your chat  _ after _ we know for certain that I’ve been turned into a baby oven. Okay? I’m stressed enough as it is and I can’t even  _ think _ that this is something more than just a supernatural accident. Promise me, Peter.”

 

Peter looks at him seriously for a moment, “I promise.”

 

Stiles exhales noisily at that, flashes a wry grin at Peter. 

 

“I’ll shave your eyebrows in your sleep and sabotage all your hair products if you’re lying to me.”

 

Peter scoffs.

 

“You don’t need to threaten me.”

 

“I really, really do. But alright. His name is Paul Davenport and he’s from somewhere in Wisconsin.”

 

He’s a bit taken aback when Peter starts to laugh.

 

“Only you, Stiles,” Peter tells him once he calms down. “Only you would find yourself a fuck buddy that is a fae prince.”

 

Stiles' jaw drops. 

 

"A prince?"

 

"I think so, yes. He's royalty for sure." 

 

"Fuck. Of course he would be a pureblood. Yer a wizard, Stiles, and your life is fucking Harry Potter," he flops back down on the couch. He can feel Peter's amusement without even having to look at him. "Stop smiling, you dick, and tell me this doesn't make it all worse." 

 

"I'm actually not sure,” Peter muses, and when Stiles turns to look at him he’s steepling his fingers like a movie villain. He’s clearly enjoying himself. “The fact that he's  _ pureblood,  _ as you called it, means that it could go two ways. Either the child is considered the rightful heir and taken away with or without you. Or it’s thought of as not good enough as a half-human and you'll be left alone and promptly forgotten. And all that, of course, if Davenport doesn't already have plans concerning you."

 

Stiles barely suppresses the urge to slam his head into the couch again.  _ His life _ .

 

"Why does all this crap happen to me?" 

 

"Because you're the wizard, Stiles,” Peter snarks, but he’s not smiling this time. He seems to be studying Stiles. 

 

“But enough of that for now," Peter suddenly declares and gets up. 

 

He must have noticed Stiles' growing distress, whether by scent or because he simply knows how Stiles' brain works. But Stiles is grateful nonetheless and takes the easy way out. 

 

"I don't feel like making dinner today. Let's go out and get some Thai from that place downtown, and eat it as we watch Buffy." 

 

He gets up as well and follows Peter to the door, accepting the jacket Peter hands him. 

 

"Don't think I haven't seen right through you. You're only proposing take out because it's your turn to cook."

 

"Well, it's not my fault you never decide to do the same and just get Chinese. Now stop talking and get into the car. We don't have all day. "

 

They do indeed get Thai and then set up camp on Peter’s couch, the whole first season of Buffy queued up. Stiles falls asleep halfway through the third episode, belly full and lulled by the warmth radiating from the werewolf sitting at his side. The last thing he remembers is gentle fingers prying an empty carton of pad thai goong from his hands.

 

\---

 

Peter is a master of distraction and deception, and knows Stiles well enough to realize when Stiles needs to be left alone to brood a little, and when to break him out of his mood with saucy gossip he heard from any of his contacts or a piece of information that Stiles won’t be able to leave unchecked. 

 

They’re actually in the middle of researching the differences between kelpies and the Slavic rusałka when Peter’s phone rings. 

 

“ _ Pink, fluffy unicorns dancing on rainbows-- _ ” 

 

The song goes, on and on, and Stiles chortles at the absolutely disgusted look on Peter’s face as the man fishes his phone out of his pocket.

 

“Your face, oh God,” Stiles wheezes. He’s so very proud of this one, it took some sneaky planning to get his hands on Peter’s phone to change his ringtone. So very worth it even if he ends up dead. 

 

“I would be planning my revenge as we speak,” Peter snaps as he looks down on the screen, swipes a thumb over it, “but it’s Deaton calling.”

 

Stiles’ humor dies before Peter puts the phone to his ear. 

 

It’s time then.

 

He follows Peter out of the apartment and into the car on autopilot. Peter doesn’t try talking to him, but somewhere along the way, he must have texted Stiles’ dad because the Sheriff is waiting for them in the parking lot when they reach the clinic.

 

He’s being pulled out of the car and into his dad’s arms the moment Peter stops the car and Stiles  _ clings _ to his father like a drowning man. He breathes in the familiar scent of spice, gunpowder, and coffee until he stops shaking, but he keeps a tight hold on his dad. Lets himself be guided into the building by a familiar arm around his shoulders, Peter opening the door for them. 

 

Deaton is waiting for them at the reception desk, his mouth set it that familiar, but infuriating little smile. Stiles wants to claw that expression off the vet’s face, but instead, he tries to focus on the annoyance he feels towards the man instead of the churning in his belly.

 

“Just tell me,” Stiles demands before Deaton can start off with pleasantries and small talk. He needs the band-aid  _ ripped _ off. “Up front: am I, or am I not baking a bun in my oven?”

 

It’s a testament to how worried everyone seems to be that no one even rolls their eyes at him. 

 

Deaton still stalls for a moment, to the point that Peter puts a calming and restraining hand on Stiles' shoulder. 

 

Curse the vet and his propensity for dramatics. 

 

He’s pretty sure it’s his dad's scowl that makes Deaton talk.

 

“Yes, Stiles, the blood results are pretty clear. You’re with child.”

 

He should be much more prepared for the news, he was the one to recognize the symptoms for what they were. He was the one to come to Peter, and then to Deaton to make sure. He should be ready.

 

But he’s not and he’s feeling dizzy, the voices around him far away, muffled like he’s underwater. The room is stifling hot all of a sudden and blurs before Stiles’ eyes. His legs feel weak and he stumbles, but strong arms catch him on either side and he’s being gently lowered to the floor. He thinks someone lifts his legs, but he can’t tell.

 

He just lies there and breathes, tries to focus on the hands on his shoulders, on the light pressure around his ankles.

 

“Stiles? Stiles, are you okay?” he hears his father ask and he nods.

 

“Yeah,” he manages, voice clicking, clears his throat to try again, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

 

“You really have to stop with the dramatics, Stiles,” he hears Peter say from somewhere above him.

 

Stiles throws an arm over his face and laughs, hopes that they’ll all ignore the fact that it comes out wet and a bit hysterical. 

 

\---

 

They take him back to Peter’s, but his dad is there as well this time. Stiles feels their eyes on him, like they think he might faint again, and he can’t begrudge them for that because he feels ready to collapse. 

 

“I need to-- I need to be alone for a bit,” he says. Looks at his dad smile tightly at him and tips his head down a bit to accept the kiss to his forehead.

 

Peter says nothing, just watches them embrace, but Stiles can see the wheels spinning. He should probably worry, should ask Peter what it is that he’s planning now, but he decides that it can wait.

 

Everything else can wait a day or so as he tries to come to terms that he’s a human incubator. 

 

He leaves them in the living-room and doesn’t even try to listen in on them talk as he heads for the guest room that he’s claimed as his for the time being. He crawls onto the bed and under the covers, presses his face into the pillow, and lets it all crash over him as he cries.

 

He’ll think it all through and consider his options later, but he needs this one moment to let go.

 

He allows himself to be scared, betrayed, and small. Feels the phantom weight settle inside him and latch on, gnaw at him. He’s weak, just for now, weak and also angry because it shouldn’t be like this.

 

He’s a man, for fuck’s sake, he was just having fun at college, experiencing life. He was free and now he’s paying for it and it’s not fair at all.

 

_ It’s not fair _ .

 

He’s shaking as he sobs, his skin too tight and the world to big for him to carry on his shoulders. Or in the womb, he wasn’t meant to have.

 

\---

 

Stiles wakes up groggy, throat feeling raw and eyes puffy from crying. His stomach gurgles threateningly and he almost falls out of bed in his haste to reach the bathroom.

 

He leans his head against the cool porcelain once he’s done puking and heaving, and just rests there for a moment. Recalibrates.

 

After brushing his teeth and a hot shower, he decides he’s as good as he’ll ever be and marches out to the living space of the apartment. Only, there’s no one there. A look at the clock hanging on the wall tells him that it’s well past noon, and Peter should have been up for a few hours now. The werewolf is ridiculous and a morning person, after all.

 

But the living-room and kitchen are empty, and when he wanders back down the hall, the door to Peter’s room is ajar and there’s no sign of him there either. 

 

There’s no note or even a text on his phone, but it’s not like he has to check in with Stiles before he goes out. It is his apartment after all. 

 

Maybe this is Peter giving Stiles some space? He did say he wanted to be alone and Peter most certainly heard him last night. 

 

Stiles’ stomach grumbles again, but this time it’s a hungry kind of sound, and he decides to make himself something light and easy to help settle and fill his stomach. He rifles through the cupboards and settles for some toast. That should be light enough. And he doesn’t really feel up to much else.

 

He’s about to sit down at the table with a plate of buttery toast and a glass of juice when he hears keys turn in in the lock, followed by a cold breeze. 

 

“Hey, where did you go?” he calls, then takes a bite of his breakfast, doesn’t really bother turning to check if it’s Peter that came in. Stiles is the only other person with a key to this place.

 

“Had some business to take care of,” Peter supplies as he enters the kitchen.

 

There’s a fleeting, light touch at the nape of his neck as Peter passes him on the way to the fridge, Peter’s own little form of scenting. It’s not new and Stiles is long since used to it, but it still helps ease something inside of him. Like there was something missing and  _ wrong _ before Peter got his scent on him.

 

It’s familiar by now, though, and doesn’t distract Stiles from getting a few answers.

 

“What kind of business?” he asks between bites, but then thinks of how messed up their lives are and swallows hastily. “Tell me it’s not another baddie. Because if we have another critter in town I’d rather it be dealt with as soon as possible. I don’t really feel up to running through the woods in the middle of the night right now.”

 

Peter leans back against the counter with a bottle of water he fished out of the fridge in his hand. He takes a few sips before replying. 

 

“No, nothing of the like. I just cleared up a few things with Paul.”

 

Stiles stills at that, puts the juice he was holding down onto the table a bit forcefully, the liquid sloshing against the glass walls.

 

“You did what?” 

 

“Had a chat with him, like I said I would.”

 

Stiles pushes his plate away, what little appetite he had lost to anger. 

 

“Peter, you fucking promised!”

 

“I only promised to wait until we knew for sure,” the werewolf clarifies, in a tone that says he thinks Stiles is being unreasonable. “You got the results and I kept my half of the deal.”

 

“It wasn’t a fucking deal! Why didn’t you tell me you were going?”

 

“You needed space. And frankly,” Peter says with a bit more force, “I doubt you actually wanted to confront the guy about it all judging from what you’ve told me about him so far.”

 

“That’s not for you to decide,” he spits. He clenches his fingers into tight fists to stop himself from throwing things at Peter. The bastard would only catch them or duck and Stiles would end up even more agitated. 

 

And yes, maybe he is right. Stiles doesn’t think Paul deserves to know about the baby, certainly doesn’t deserve to have any say in the matter at all.  

 

But the same goes for Peter. Stiles should be the one dealing the cards here. This is his life and his body. And his baby.

 

“No, but it had to be done,” Peter breaks through Stiles’ train of thought, his tone decisive. He has his arms crossed in front of his chest, the muscles in his arms bulging up a little under the tight v-neck henley he’s wearing. “And like you said, it’s better to deal with it as soon as possible. Now we have one less problem on our hands.”

 

“What do you mean?” Stiles seethes through gritted teeth. 

 

“I helped him realize his car needs a paint job, explained how things are and how they will look from now on. He wasn’t really interested in being a father,” Peter explains, but sighs and continues when Stiles levels him with a frigid glare, “He said, and I quote: ‘Whatever, dude. I don't even want to be a dad. I don't have time for that’. 

 

“And I simply told him that if he ever gets within three feet of you I’ll destroy him and even gave him a free demonstration.”

 

Stiles snorts, anger momentarily forgotten.

 

"Oh, did you, now?"

 

"He may have trouble getting it up for some time."

 

Stiles chuckles in spite of himself, he can’t really help it. 

 

“You ripped his dick off, didn’t you?” he asks and Peter gives him his patented  _ what do you think, idiot _ eyebrow, “Oh my god, you did! You ripped his dick off! How’s that even a demonstration?”

 

“Fae are quite skilled at healing spells,” Peter tells him, the expression on his face that of complete boredom as he examines his nails like he’s looking for traces of blood and tissue, but Stiles can see the satisfied little curve of his mouth, “I’m sure it’ll grow back at some point. Maybe he’ll learn a better use for it by then.”

 

Peter did all that for him, he realizes. Went looking for a guy he knew little about to make sure Stiles would be safe, that there’s no imminent danger hanging over their heads, over Stiles’.

 

“You’re incorrigible,” Stiles smiles fondly at the man.

 

He gets up from his chair and collects his dishes, deposits them in the sink and reaches out to catch one of Peter’s wrists and give it a little squeeze.

 

“Thank you.”

 

\---

 

They have a… meeting is a bit much, but it’s the only word that fits. They meet and they discuss by avoiding the subject altogether.

 

They’re at Peter’s again. Or still, since Stiles hasn’t as much as walked out the door yet, simply called his dad, asking him to come over.

 

Before all that though, he called Deaton.

 

_ He chews on his thumbnail as he waits for the vet to pick up, heart in his throat. He thinks he might actually puke again when the call finally goes through and he hears the familiar voice drawl: _

 

_ “How can I help you, Stiles?” _

 

_ Stiles takes a deep breath, counts to ten, and exhales slowly. He has to know. _

 

_ “If the-- If the other father was fae, does it change-- Can I--”  _

 

_ He stops and makes himself breathe again, the vet silently waiting for him to continue. He’ll never be ready to ask the question without feeling guilty anyway so he just forces it out on an exhale.  _

 

_ “Can you remove it?” _

 

Which brings him back to the here and now, his dad and Peter sitting with him at the kitchen table, sipping tea. It’s such an absurd scene, but Stiles can’t even force a smile.

 

He thought of it. Last night and after his argument with Peter. He tried to consider his options, but it all came down to a simple question: will he have the baby?

 

And he thinks of it as a baby already. Not an embryo, not a parasite. He’s usually so good at compartmentalizing. He’s practical above all else. He knows when to get a grip, hold his head high and do what needs to be done. And he wants to be like that now too, wants to think about this like any other problem he’s faced so far.

 

It is his future. His  _ life _ . 

 

He didn’t sign up for this. Not now and not like this, not without his knowledge.

 

It wasn’t by his choice that it happened, yet he  _ has _ to make a choice now and he’s so confused. Just so scared.

 

He wishes he could hand over the reigns to his dad or Peter, have one of them tell him what to do. But he knows none of them will. Even now they look like they’re chatting idly about one thing or another, but he sees them looking at him every other minute. Checking. Watching. 

 

Waiting for him to decide.

 

His dad must see a change in his expression because he places a hand on Stiles’ forearm and holds on, makes Stiles look at him.

 

“I know it’s a difficult decision to make, son, but I know you’ll make the right one. And whichever it is, I’ll back you up. Okay?” he tightens the fingers on Stiles’ arm briefly. “I’m really proud of how you’ve been handling it so far and I know you’re scared. But I’m here for you and so is Peter, and I’m sure that Scott and the others will be too.”

 

Stiles looks at his dad, heart swelling, and throat tight. He twists his arm out of his dad’s grip only to catch his hand in his and squeeze. He turns to Peter and the werewolf says nothing, but his face is serious and sincere as he nods, wordlessly backing up what the Sheriff has said.

 

Stiles takes a few shaky breaths, rubs a hand over his eyes and sits up straight.

 

“Okay.”

 

\--

 

Both his dad and Peter offer to go with him to the clinic, but he declines.

 

“Thank you, but no. I want to do this-- I need to do this alone.”

 

He doesn’t even let them drive him to the clinic, takes his Jeep instead. 

 

He leaves Peter’s place early and roams around town for a while, just letting himself drift as he rides along roads he’s known all his life. 

 

In the grand scheme of things, Stiles hasn’t even thought of letting another person know that he’s pregnant, not even his best friend. He knows Scott would be supportive of whatever Stiles chooses to do, but it was enough that his dad and Peter, and also Deaton, were aware of it. 

 

So he picked a time that Scott would be at school to do this, had Deaton promised to keep it a secret from his friend. 

 

He’ll tell him later. After.

 

Finally, he reaches the clinic, hops out of the car and heads for the back door that Deaton left open for him. It won’t take long, Deaton promised, and will be relatively simple to perform. 

 

In any other case, had it been anything else he is here for, Stiles would be asking for all the details. With this, he’ll settle for the bare minimum. 

 

Deaton is already waiting for him, hands him a pair of scrubs that must be his and points him to one of the rooms.

 

“Change into this and lie down on the table. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

 

Stiles nods and does as he’s told, going through the motions with a sort of jagged numbness. Folding his clothes as he takes them off, slipping on the scrubs over his bare skin, looking at the tools Deaton already prepared and not taking any of it in.

 

The table is cold under him as he sits on the edge, unable to climb on it fully just yet. He plays with the strings of his pants, pulling them this way and that, gaze unseeing. He waits.

 

In a moment, he’ll have an abortion. 

 

It’s ridiculous how this was the first time he actually thought the word despite being here at the clinic for that very purpose. It’s absurd and ludicrous, and he laughs. And he cries.

 

He can’t.

 

He can’t do it. Oh god, oh god. He can’t. There’s no way.

 

He’s shaking and crying, but he gets off the table and manages to fish his phone out of his jeans, presses the number three and clutches the phone to his ear with both hands.

 

“Stiles?”

 

“I can’t do it,” he says in a broken whisper, “I can’t.”

 

“I’ll be right there,” Peter promises in a calm voice and doesn’t hang up.

 

Stiles sinks to the floor with the phone pressed to his ear and listens to the sound of Peter moving about, starting his car, driving, focuses on the sound of him breathing.

 

When Peter gets there, Stiles is still curled on the floor, sobbing, and no Deaton in sight. Stiles doesn’t know if the vet knew what would happen, or heard Stiles’ break down and how he made the call. He doesn’t really care.

 

He doesn’t even look up at Peter, just feels the werewolf there when he wraps his arms around Stiles and picks him up. Carries him out of the clinic and to his car like he weighs nothing. He’s limp in Peter’s hold, crying silently as Peter fastens his seatbelt for him. He’s so lost in his head, in the spiral of  _ I can’t, I can’t, I can’t  _ that he doesn’t even notice when they’re back at Peter’s.

 

Peter helps him out of the car, lifts him again when Stiles doesn't move, and carries him all the way up the stairs, into the apartment, and puts him on the couch.

 

And all Stiles can do is let go. Let go and cling to Peter, getting snot and tears all over his chest.

 

Peter holds him closer without a word.

 

\--

 

Telling Scott ends up being the easiest part of the whole  _ oh my god, I'm pregnant _ business. 

 

He explains what's going on in a few words, Scott gapes at him a little, asks him to tell him again, and then grins like a loon as he swoops Stiles into a crushing hug. 

 

"I'm gonna be an uncle!"

 

And that's that. 

 

Well, not exactly because after a few minutes of excitement and even more hugs, Scott asks:

 

"But what will you do about school? You still have over a year left."

 

“College is the easy part, you know?” Stiles tells him, “I’m sure as hell not taking a gap year because I’d go crazy with nothing to do, just sitting around and growing until I’m big like a whale. So I’m going to email my professors, claim health problems, and take online classes.”

 

“Yeah, that’s pretty reasonable,” Scott presses their shoulders together in support.

 

Stiles missed this, all the casual touching and the comfort of having his best friend around. They only get to see each other every other week what with them going to different schools in different cities. It’s good to have him here, sitting at his side on Peter’s couch.

 

“Well, I had a moment or two in between all the blinding panic to consider a few things,” he jokes, flashing Scott a self-deprecating smile, “But there’s still the matter of where I’m going to live now and how am I going to afford actually being pregnant, and then being a dad. I can leech off my own dad only that much, no matter what he says,” he stops and looks down as his own words hit home.

 

“Jesus, Scotty,” he says awed, one of his hands setting on his stomach and just resting there, “I’m going to be a dad.”

 

“An amazing dad, too,” Scott says with vehemence. “And we’ll all help you however we can. Me, your dad, my mom, Lydia, Peter, Kira too. We’ll all help, you know that.”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles feels momentarily overwhelmed and slumps into Scott, lets his friend hold him as he blinks the tears away. He’s blaming it on the hormones. 

 

“Just stay here if you’re that worried about the money. I have more than enough,” Peter announces from close behind them.

 

Stiles tips his head back against the back of the couch and there he is, right above Stiles.

 

“Are you serious?”

 

Peter rolls his eyes.

 

“Of course I’m serious. You’ve already been here a whole week, and even before, you always end up here more often than not. You might as well just stay.”

 

Stiles sits up and turns around, kneeling on the couch so that he can throw his arms around Peter in a tight, brief hug.

 

“You’re the best.”

 

“I know,” Peter replies and pats his back briefly, then steps away and heads back to the kitchen where he was preparing lunch. “I’m quite used to the sound of you vomiting all over my bathroom every morning now, anyway.” 

 

“Hey!” Stiles calls after him with mild offense, and swats at Scott for laughing at him. 

 

They end up wrestling on the couch until Peter threatens to throw them both out if they break anything.

 

It looks like it’s going to be okay.

 

\---

 

According to Deaton, and Peter’s contacts, Stiles’ body will change to accommodate the baby thanks to both fae magic and his own powers. It’s half the reason why the first two months after they figure out that Stiles is pregnant are so hard on him. That, and him being his mother’s son. Because, as his dad claims, she was quite miserable due to morning sickness as well.

 

The fatigue gets worse too and between being constantly tired, peeing a lot and puking, it’s a bit difficult to keep up with his classes. But he manages it all. He finished high school with grades second only to Lydia despite being part of a ragtag supernatural defense team and spending half the time he was awake trying to save people from getting mauled.

 

Peter helps, so does Lydia during their weekly Skype sessions, and he forges on.

 

Caffeine withdrawal might be the worst of the things that Stiles has to suffer through and he sends Peter hateful glares every single morning, the werewolf never even bothering to look up from his paper and the steaming mug in his hand.

 

They have routines now, more than they used to.

 

Mornings begin with Peter preparing breakfast while Stiles is busy in the bathroom. If Stiles can stomach it, they eat together at the table and then Stiles is the one to clean up and load the dishwasher. Then they relocate to the living-room where Stiles pulls out his laptop and deals with his coursework, while Peter does his own thing, offering tips when Stiles begs for them. 

 

Around lunchtime, if Stiles feels up to it, they go out. He won’t really be able to wander around much once he seriously starts showing so he wants to catch as much air as possible. He lets Peter drag him shopping because the werewolf takes a sick kind of pleasure in dressing Stiles up like his own personal Ken doll. It’s fun though, watching Peter make faces as he considers this color or that, and Peter always manages to find something comfortable for him to wear.

 

Peter claims that he needs to know Stiles’ measurements for future reference, when Stiles won’t be able to get them himself. Stiles calls bullshit and laughs at Peter Hale the fashion consultant until Peter threatens to sabotage the one cup of coffee Stiles is allowed. 

 

They get groceries together too, mostly so that they can get all the things Stiles is craving and avoid all the products that might irritate him: Peter wasn’t amused when he walked out of the bathroom after a shower once, only to have Stiles gag at the smell of his shower gel. That might have been the closest Stiles has seen him to regret, when it came to his decision to share space with Stiles.

 

They go to his dad’s, or invite the Sheriff over, and sometimes Stiles will go hang out with Scott with the double benefit of Melissa checking if everything is alright. It’s nice and comforting, the way all his friends are there for him, even Derek Skyping more often, but he’s not being coddled. 

 

\---

 

Peter and Scott both have been able to hear the baby’s heartbeat for a long time now, and Stiles has been slowly gaining in size, but the first time he feels the baby move it comes like a shot to the chest.

 

He sits down hard on his bed and presses his hands against his belly where he can still feel the fluttery movement. He stares unseeingly at the opposite wall and feels his chest swell with a sudden burst of affection. He decided to have the baby months ago, yes, but somewhere deep down he worried that it might become too much for him. That it might be just a thing that grows inside him and turns him into a recluse for a few months after weeks of puking his guts out.

 

He was scared that he wouldn’t be able to love this child, this baby.

 

_ His baby _ .

 

But he does, he realizes, bursting into laughter that’s so sudden and shrill he clamps a hand over his own mouth. Tears well up in his eyes, and he’s laughing against his hand, his baby flexing inside of him, and it feels like the best thing that ever happened to him: that small little movement that’ll only grow stronger. 

 

He hears a crash somewhere in the apartment and then Peter is slamming the door open, eyes electric blue and glowing. He looks worried and ready to attack, and Stiles is so, so grateful that he has him in that moment, but he can’t say it because he’s  _ giggling _ .

 

“Stiles?” Peter rushes to him and crouches on the floor right in front of Stiles, looks him over like he’s looking for an injury, “What’s going on? I heard your heartbeat spike-- Stiles?”

 

But Stiles just collapses into him, Peter immediately opening his arms to catch him, and holds on. It’s an awkward position, -- Peter still crouching, Stiles making him hold them both up -- but the werewolf stays like that until Stiles calms down enough to speak.

 

“I felt it move,” he explains, leans back enough to look at Peter, “The baby,  _ my _ baby. It’s moving.”

 

Peter’s eyes widen slightly and drop down to look at Stiles’ abdomen. He slips one hand there too, places it against the side of Stiles’ belly like he wants to feel it too.

 

“It’s too early for you to feel it, silly,” Stiles laughs and Peter simply smiles up at him, rubs his thumb gently over the material of Stiles’ shirt.

 

\---

 

Stiles gets so ridiculously excited when he starts growing a baby bump. He spends a long time every morning and every evening before bed with his shirt rucked up as he stands there and looks at his growing stomach. 

 

He’s been catching himself touching his belly a lot already, but he does it more often now, just sitting with a hand resting over where his baby sleeps. And others have taken to doing it too. His dad and Peter the most since he sees both of them a lot, Scott when he comes to visit, Melissa. They press their hands against his skin both inwardly and outwardly awed and joyous.

 

He even catches Derek looking like he wants to do it too, hand raised in the air as Stiles showed him over Skype. He gets a feeling Derek might come visit them soon.

 

He documents the baby’s growth by taking pictures once a week. Or making Peter take pictures. 

 

The werewolf rolls his eyes at him, but never says no.

 

\--

 

Scott gets a day off work and comes over to spend some time with Stiles at Peter's place. He looks at Stiles’ belly with a grin and pets it affectionately.

 

“I’m pretty sure that’s just paunch, you know? The baby is the size of a peanut and the rest is all you.”

 

“How dare you!” Stiles scowls at him and punches him in the shoulder as hard as he can. 

 

Scott is laughing, not even acting hurt, which quickly changes when Peter not-so-subtly smacks him upside the head as he passes by the couch on his way to the fridge.

 

It’s Stiles’ turn to laugh, but then he groans and makes a face. He has to pee, again. 

 

“Can you bring me some juice on the way back?” he calls after Peter as he heads to the bathroom.

 

When Stiles returns, Scott is watching Peter put a glass of orange juice on the coffee table, right in front of where Stiles was sitting and goes, 

 

"Dude, you are so whipped."

 

“Stiles and I are completely devoted to each other,” Peter replies looking right back at Stiles even as he settles himself in his armchair, completely ignoring the face Scott makes at his words.

 

Stiles grins and plonks himself down in Peter's lap without a second thought, kisses him on the cheek and stares at Scott as he says, completely deadpan.

 

"Peter makes an amazing husband."

 

“Mm, of course I do,” Peter agrees.

 

Scott just looks between the two of them, sighs and goes, "You know, I can't even tell if you guys are kidding anymore." 

 

When neither of them says anything, staring at him impassively, he groans, "And that's my cue to leave." 

 

Stiles sniggers at his friend’s retreating back.

 

Peter is still holding him, doesn’t really seem to mind Stiles sitting in his lap, so he makes himself comfortable and leans into the werewolf. If Peter keeps on rubbing his belly like that he’ll be asleep in no time at all.

 

“You certainly put other husbands to shame,” he tells Peter seriously, and decides to order a plaque saying just that for Peter.

 

They’ll hang it on the fridge.

 

\--

 

Stiles is five months pregnant when Paul strolls back into the picture, like the fae douchebag he is.

 

It’s Peter that opens the door, having smelled the distinct concoction of flowers and magic that all fae smell of. Stiles stays in the living-room, but close enough to hear them talk.

 

“I think I told you what will happen to you if you come near Stiles again,” Peter says right off the bat, tone droll, like he’s greeting a pesky neighbor and not promising murder. “Or do you need another demonstration.”

 

“Look,” Paul starts, “I don’t even want to be here, but I have to talk to Stiles.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because my parents caught wind that I put a baby in a guy and they wanted to avoid a scandal. Something about how a future king should know better than fucking around and casually impregnating people,” the fae explains and he sounds completely unaffected by it all. Like he absolutely doesn’t care.

 

But Stiles does.

 

He comes storming out and only Peter putting an arm out to hold him inside stops him from charging at Paul.

 

“How the fuck dare you?!” he spits, “How dare you show up here after what you’ve done to me?! I don’t give a  _ fuck _ what your parents are saying. You gave up your right to  _ my _ baby when you conveniently forgot to mention that you can impregnate me and then fucked off to who knows where! Get out!  _ Get out! _ ”

 

He’s yelling by the end of it, wishing Peter would let him go so he could tear into this bastard. 

 

Paul doesn’t seem the least affected by Stiles’ anger, looks at him like he’s just some dumb ferret making tricks. Like he’s so far above whatever Stiles is saying.

 

"Well, tough luck, princess,” Paul says with nonchalance and completely ignores Stiles’ glare and Peter growling at him. “Fae court dictates that I must claim any offspring I sire as heir. That means you either give the kid to me when it's born, or you come with it. Your choice." 

 

Stiles can feel all the blood drain from his face and he breaks out into a cold sweat. He stumbles when his legs give out at the sheer thought of someone taking his baby from him. 

 

He can’t, he thinks as he wraps his arms around his belly. He won’t let anyone take his baby away.

 

Peter, who caught Stiles to prevent him from falling to the ground, lowers him to the floor in the hallway. His eyes are stone cold and his face is set into a look that promises slaughter, and it makes Stiles shiver in fear even though he knows it’s not directed at him.

 

Peter stands back up and advances on Paul. He catches him by the collar.

 

"Yeah, you definitely need another demonstration,” Peter announces and takes Paul away from Stiles and the baby, leaving Stiles to calm down on his own, right there in the doorway, still shaking.

 

At some point, maybe ten-twenty minutes later, Stiles manages to get up and close the door before he migrates further into the apartment. He goes to Peter’s room because it’s the one furthest from the door, curls up on Peter’s bed, and waits. 

 

He trusts Peter with his life, but he lies there tense and scared, mind whirring, until Peter comes back and wraps himself around him. His big, warm hands settling over Stiles’ baby protectively.

 

“I know what to do,” he promises, “Everything’s going to be fine. I won’t let anyone take either of you.”

 

Stiles turns in his arms, a bit clumsily because of his baby bump, and burrows close. Has Peter hold him until the tremors stop.

 

\--

 

They never see Paul again.

 

Peter disappears for two days the following morning, leaving Stiles with his dad and Scott, and returns home looking triumphant and smug.

 

Stiles slumps into him with relief and allows him to scent Stiles to his heart’s content. He doesn’t remember to ask how Peter saved them until a while later.

 

"If he's done it once, he's done it before,” Peter tells him over dinner (made by Stiles’ dad since Stiles and his weird cravings have him banned from making food for anyone). “It wasn't at all difficult to track down three ladies who he happened to knock up and leave, much like he did with you.”

 

“Thank you, Peter. Thank you so much,” Stiles says with feeling.

 

Peter snorts.

 

“You’d think of it yourself once you’d stop panicking, so there’s really no need to thank me. Besides,” Peter smirks and nods towards the plaque on the fridge, “I need to live up to my amazing husband status.”

 

He ducks out of the way of the pickle Stiles throws at him and makes Stiles clean it up later, but Stiles doesn’t mind.

 

\--

 

Stiles is napping on the couch the first time the baby moves enough for it to be noticeable by others. He grunts in discomfort at the movement and smooths a hand over it, trying to soothe his son -- according to Deaton and the ultrasound pictures they got from him, even though Scott claims it looks just like a blob, -- back to sleep.

 

He has the distinct feeling of being watched and opens his eyes to see Peter, an armload of groceries in hand, staring at his belly.

 

_ Oh. _

 

“You saw him move?” he’s whispering for some unknown reason, but Peter hears him and just nods his head like he’s in a trance.

 

He looks absolutely ridiculous.

 

“C’mere,” Stiles beckons him over as sits up on the couch. 

 

He half expects Peter to just let the bag he’s holding fall to the ground, but the ever-sensible werewolf just puts it down on the coffee table, and Stiles just knows there’s a bottle of Peter’s favorite wine in there.

 

He’s expecting Peter to sit next to him, but the werewolf kneels right there in front of him, between Stiles’ knees, because he’s big enough that he has to spread his legs to accommodate his belly. Stiles just rolls with it, completely ignoring how it feels to look down at Peter in this position.

 

He reaches his hands out and, when Peter obliges offering his, twines their fingers together and presses them to his stomach.

 

“Can you hear him move? Can you guess if he’ll kick again?”

 

“I think I could if I were closer,” Peter replies and leans in until his ear is flush with Stiles’ belly.

 

Stiles hums happily, completely ignoring how hot his face feels, and watches Peter listening to the baby.

 

His eyes are closed and he’s completely still, and Stiles realizes he’s actually holding his breath. 

 

He has the greatest urge to comb his fingers through Peter’s perfectly styled hair, maybe ruffle it a little even, but Peter is so devoted to tracking down the baby’s movements that he holds back. For now.

 

And then Stiles feels the baby kicking again and Peter is moving away from him far enough to stare at Stiles’ stomach as he holds a hand to his cheek. But instead of looking offended he looks awed and  _ happy. _

 

Stiles’ son kicked Peter in the face and he’s totally getting away with it already! 

 

Stiles has never been more proud.

 

\--

 

At eight months Stiles is cranky, waddles, and his ankles and back ache a lot. He also has to pee every other hour. 

 

It’s when he gets up at four in the morning to empty his bladder that he sees the red vertical lines marring the skin of his stomach. 

 

Logically, he knows that he should have expected them. He knows.

 

But it’s really early, he’s still half asleep and unbelievably stressed about being pregnant. He’s allowed a freakout or two.

 

He’s also allowed to go with said freakout to the only other person in the apartment.

 

Peter loudly disagrees.

 

“Stop whining!  _ Jesus _ , it’s enough that you wake me up every time you have to roll out of bed,” Peter groans into his pillow.

 

“I can’t help it!” he replies as he slowly lowers himself onto the bed before lying down.

 

Somewhere around the seventh month both of them realized that the baby will need a nursery. The room Stiles had been using up to that point was the only real candidate for it and it was only reasonable that Stiles would share with Peter, for now.

 

Which is exactly how Stiles ends up waking Peter up every time he gets up, his huge belly making it hard to lever himself up so he sometimes needs a bit of a push. It’s also at times like this that Peter threatens to tie Stiles to the bed and have him wear a catheter so that he can get at least one night of undisturbed sleep.

 

Stiles gives as good as he gets, and threatens to take away the amazing husband plaque.

 

They deal with it.

 

Whining about stretch marks, however, seems to be too much for Peter at this hour and he turns around and pulls Stiles close so they can settle back to sleep. 

 

“We’ll deal with this in the morning. Now sleep,” he grumbles, and Stiles obliges because Peter makes an amazing body pillow.

 

A pillow that has an amazing massage function, he thinks absently, when he feels Peter knead at his lower back, relieving some of the pain. 

 

Stiles sleeps best with Peter around. 

 

\--

 

Alexander Stilinski is a summer baby.

 

Stiles doesn’t see him until Deaton and Melissa have finished patching him up. He’s tiny, red-faced and wrinkly, and so very loud.

 

“He’s so beautiful,” he tells his dad in a thick voice, when his son is put into his arms.

 

He nuzzles his nose against the baby’s cheek and then they’re both crying: Alex welcoming the world, Stiles tired and so unbelievably happy. 

 

He hears a throat clearing and he looks up to see his dad wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. Stiles laughs at that, all three Stilinski men crying in that very moment, and rocks his son gently in his arms.

 

“You did good, son,” his dad says. He leans down to plant a kiss at the top of Alex’s head, then another one on Stiles’ forehead, “I’m so proud of you.”

 

“Thanks, dad,” Stiles rasps out. He sniffles, looks around. “Where’s Peter? And Scott?” 

 

As if waiting for the call, Peter appears at the door, rapping softly against the frame. In his hand, there’s a wolf plushie. 

 

“A wolf? I never thought you’d be so cliche,” he laughs.

 

Peter seems pleased by his reaction and promptly enters the room.

 

“I know how you feel about cliches, which is why the wolf is for you,” he places said toy by Stiles’ feet, then sits at the edge of the bed, on the opposite side from Stiles’ dad. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Exhausted. Sleepy. Really fucking happy,” Stiles tells him truthfully, a grin stuck to his face.

 

Peter gives him a smile in return, one of those rare ones that are completely genuine. “I can see that.”

 

“Yeah,” he looks back to the baby, who has now calmed down and seems ready to fall asleep. Stiles isn’t really far behind. “Peter, this is Alex. My son,” the last two words ring clearly with pride and joy.

 

“Welcome, Alex,” Peter greets the baby with a soft smile and leans in to drag his nose gently over one chubby cheek.

 

Then he does the same to Stiles, and Stiles swears he can feel the light pressure of Peter’s lips against his jaw before the werewolf leans away.

 

\--

 

When Stiles thinks about it, they were always heading this way. 

 

Even before Paul, before he got pregnant and started to rely so heavily on Peter. Even before they practically moved in together, shared space and Peter’s bed.

 

No matter the path they took, it would always have led them here.

 

They’re already so close that most people can’t tell if they’re together or not. Sometimes it seems like they forget about it too. Their scents mingle, their lives overlap, and they flirt like nobody’s business.

 

Stiles knows that he wants Peter in his life, he’s known that for a while, but with the baby on the way he had other things to focus on. It feels right, though, taking care of Alex with Peter at his side.

 

He thinks Peter feels the same because Peter never mentions Stiles moving back in with his dad, doesn’t question one of his rooms being permanently claimed as a nursery. Doesn’t ask Stiles to leave his bed.

 

That Stiles was let in, in the first place, for nothing more than convenience and comfort, says it all. 

 

But as sure as Stiles is of it all, he waits, they both do, though he’s not sure what they’re waiting for.

 

\--

 

It’s on a completely ordinary day, that things come to a head.

 

Stiles wakes when Peter wordlessly rolls out of bed in the middle of the night to check on the baby, his enhanced hearing alarming him much earlier about Alex being awake. Stiles stays awake for a long while, cold without Peter there, but he doesn't come back to bed.

 

Stiles goes to see what’s taking him so long and he finds Peter in the rocking chair, his baby boy asleep on his chest.

 

Peter’s eyes are set on Alex and there’s so much love in that gaze, so much  _ parental _ affection for the child that Peter helped Stiles bring to this world. There’s just so much there, that Stiles refuses to wait any longer.

 

Not when Peter turns to him and his face is open and vulnerable like he’s scared that Stiles might take it all away

 

He approaches him slowly, heart beating wildly in his chest. He gives Peter all the time in the world to back away, tell him no, claim that he’s in this only for Alex. But he doesn’t.

 

He waits for Stiles to reach him, the baby held close to his chest, for Stiles to catch Peter's mouth in a chaste, simple kiss.

 

“How do you feel,” Stiles whispers, mouth a breath away from Peter’s, “about not only being an amazing husband but an amazing dad as well?”

 

It takes a moment for Peter to reply, his voice almost completely steady as he quirks an eyebrow at Stiles. 

 

"If I didn't know better, I'd say that was a proposal."

 

Stiles muffles his laugher against the corner of Peter’s mouth, his heart beating in his chest like it’s about to burst.

 

"Looks like you don't know better,” he says, and seals the promise with a kiss. Seals his life, too. 

 

\---

 

**Epilogue**

 

\---

 

Alex is three years old, an absolute delight, and spending the night at his grandparents' house, when Stiles plops down onto Peter's lap and hands him a neatly wrapped package.

 

"What's this?" Peter muses, looking the gift over, "Did you prepare something special for us tonight?"

 

Stiles grins at him, already buzzing with excitement, and leans in to briefly nibble at Peter's jaw.

 

"Mm, no, but I think you'll be very pleased with it."

 

Peter arches a questioning eyebrow at him, then places the present in Stiles' lap as he opens it, carefully cutting the tape.

 

Stiles watches him, biting at his thumb to stop himself from hurrying him, or just blurting it all out.

 

He sees Peter blink in confusion when he unwraps the paper and finds a seemingly plain black shirt. Observes as Peter lifts it up to unfold it, and then freeze when he sees the letters at the front of the shirt.

 

_ Baby Daddy. _

 

It takes only a second for Peter's eyes to widen in comprehension and then he's clutching Stiles to his chest and kissing him, hard and deep and ridiculously happy. Stiles throws his own excitement into it, and even though he messes it up a bit because he can't stop grinning, it's one of the best kisses they’ve shared.

 

Stiles is breathless and a bit dazed when they break apart, and he's pleased when Peter doesn't look much better.

 

Peter is smiling at him, too, a brilliant small curve of his mouth that's reserved for Alex and Stiles, and soon will be expanded to their second baby.

 

"A t-shirt? Really, Stiles."

 

"You fucking love it, Hale."

  
  


END


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